


Like Gold

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Death, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ghosts, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Oh and because it's me there's, Retirement, So all these tags so far seem kind of cute, VERY SAD RICHARD, although if you need a cathartic cry go for it, and more die, but in fact this is a super sad story, but it's still sad don't let that fool you, but they're DEAD, look lestrade is a popular guy okay, lots of people are already dead at the start of the story, minor janine/molly/lestrade, minor mrs hudson/lestrade, minor mycroft/lestrade, seriously you still have time to click the back button, so points for that I guess, there's, they're very old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: Sherlock first realizes that something isn’t right when Mycroft makes a disparaging comment about the Halloween decorations. Mycroft has been dead for twelve years. “My brother’s not there, is he?”“Mr. Mycroft Holmes?”Sherlock nods.“He died in 2047, Mr. Holmes. Heart failure.” Seeing Sherlock’s nose wrinkle, she adds “It’s 2059.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from John Donne's "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning", and the verse is
> 
> Our two souls therefore, which are one,  
> Though I must go, endure not yet  
> A breach, but an expansion,  
> Like gold to airy thinness beat. 
> 
> You may take that as an additional warning.

Sherlock first realizes that something isn’t right when Mycroft makes a disparaging comment about the Halloween decorations.

 

Mycroft has been dead for twelve years.

 

Sherlock shakes his head despite the twinge in his neck, but there Mycroft is, standing against the busy wallpaper of 221b radiating disdainful silence.

“Mr. Holmes,” the nurse says, bustling in.  “It’s time for your pill.”

“Bugger that,” Sherlock says. “Tell me what you see.”

The nurse doesn’t blanch--she is well-paid enough for her cooperation--and follows his line of sight.  
“I see a chair, Mr. Holmes, and that new plant Dev Lestrade brought you last week. I see your books.”

“My brother’s not there, is he?”

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes?”

Sherlock nods.

“He died in 2047, Mr. Holmes. Heart failure.” Seeing Sherlock’s nose wrinkle, she adds “It’s 2059.”

“I know. Give me the damn pill.” His hand doesn’t shake as he reaches for the porcelain dish. No paper cups for the Holmeses, even when they have been shunted off to expensive care homes.

“Paper cups,” Mycroft says, and shudders.  
“Sod off, Mycroft.” Sherlock mutters. “I like Halloween.”

“So do we all, Mr. Holmes. Are you going to wear a costume?”

“I don’t know. John?”

“Mr. Watson’s still in the hospital, Mr. Holmes. He’s having a bit of a time with his lungs. They’ll try to get him back to you as soon as possible.”

“Well, I don’t know about costumes, then. John hasn’t said what he wants to be. Pirates, maybe.”

“That’d be nice.” Not listening. Sherlock knows it. She is thinking about the mess she’ll find in Porter’s room opposite. He opens his mouth to say something, to draw her attention back to him, but closes it again. She is nice enough, and fifty years of John Watson’s concern for the feelings of the general public has rubbed off on him. He takes his pill--hand still steady--and looks at John’s chair again.

“Tell John he’s being insufferable.”

“Would you like me to set up your comm., Mr. Holmes? You can tell him yourself.”

Sherlock stares at her blankly. She is pointing to his wrist.

“No. I prefer to text. Where’s my phone?”

“Your wrist. Just say “To John Watson”, and then tell him he’s insufferable.”

Sherlock looks at the watch. It is on his wrist. It has been on his wrist a considerable time. His eyes flick up towards the nurse--she has given this explanation before.  

“Not now. He’ll be sleeping.”

She smiles as she turns her cart around.

“I’ll see if I can get you some news straight from the horse’s mouth, Mr. Holmes. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

He nods as she leaves.

John’s chair is empty. Where is he? He doesn’t have a shift at the clinic, does he? No. No, he doesn’t. John left the clinic after the Duke of Argyle’s case, in ‘35. They’d left London in ‘41.

His mind does still work.

“To John Watson.” The wrist phone beeps. “John. Where are you?”

There is a pause.

“In a hospital bed, you berk” John wheezes.

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”

“Alive, mostly. It’s,” John draws a rattling breath, “three weeks away, Sherlock.”

“Forethought. I’m bored.”

Silence.

“I’m surrounded by decorations. And I’m not sure...” Sherlock hesitates.

“Sherlock,” John prompts. Sherlock takes a deep breath; maybe he can breathe for both of them.

“I don’t know what day it is. And Mycroft spoke to me.”

“Arsehole,” John says, and they both laugh, though John’s laugh is feeble bark that trails off into series of very wet coughs.

“Rest,” Sherlock says.

“Love you,” John whispers.

“Love you.”

\--------

He is hungry--a rare thing, now and always.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“She’s not your housekeeper.”

“Shut up, Mycroft. You’re not here.”

“You’re not here either, little brother,” Mycroft says.

“I know where I am.”

“Do you, though, Sherlock love?” Mrs. Hudson asks, startling him.

“Are there biscuits? Oh, and a whole cake for Mycroft.”

“No biscuits, Sherlock. I’ve been dead since 2032.”

“You can’t be. You just threw out a bag of kidneys.”

“I threw out 17 bags of kidneys in total. The last one was in 2024.”

“Observe,” Mycroft says, “Your consciousness is overlaying hers. Would she remember the number of bags?”

“I would indeed, Mycroft Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson responds indignantly.

Sherlock looks at them both. Mrs. Hudson keeps sliding out of his field of vision.

“Where’s John? I’m hungry.”

“Your lunch is here, Mr. Holmes.” An orderly this time, bringing meat and two veg. Well-cooked meat and two veg, but definitely not curry or Thai, and John’s not here. But he’s hungry.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and picks up his fork.

\--------

“Sherlock.” Sherlock puts down his book and lifts the comm. to his face. The picture is tiny but the resolution is excellent.

“John!” He looks thin. Thin and small.

“Miss you.”

Where are you?”

“Bed.” John gestures with his left hand. Sherlock frowns.

“How are you?”

“Sick, still.”

“Should I call Mrs. Hudson for you?” As he says it, he knows he shouldn’t have.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” John’s face changes to an expression he’s seen it a thousand times. The worry face.

“I meant Molly. Should I call Molly?”

“Maybe. I’d like to see her. But she can’t come at the drop of a hat, Sherlock. She has to wait for Dev to drive her.” John is panting when he makes it to the end of the sentence.

“Dev...of course.” Molly has lost her sight, he remembers now. Dev is her...son? Grandson?

“To Molly Hooper” he says. Molly should come. “Molly, John is sick.”

“Hello, Sherlock.” Molly’s voice is as thin as John’s face. Her own face is beautiful in age. “I know. Pneumonia. Terrible thing, that.”

“‘Lo, Molly,” John croaks.

“Oh, you’re there. Hello, John.”

“Can you come?”  
“Sherlock, I’ll try. Dev has the weekend off soon; he’ll bring me.”

“Good.”

\--------

The nurse comes in as Sherlock is reading a letter about beehives. It’s from someone he doesn’t recognize, but the beehives are interesting. He kept bees, once, in Sussex with John. John avoided the beehives, but he enjoyed the honey. He’d learned to make bread, sometime in the early 40’s. Homemade bread is good with honey.

Sherlock remembers kissing John’s lips when they were sticky with honey. He would like to do that again--kiss John. Honey or no honey.

“Took you two long enough to get together.”  
“Lestrade!” There he is, large as bloody life, with that ridiculous sweater vest he’s affected since retiring. “How are things, Garland?”

“About the same.”

“Where’s Molly?”

“She’s home. She can’t travel like I can, now.”

“John wants to see her.”

“You know he’s not here, Sherlock.”  Mycroft is wearing a similar sweater vest. As if Sherlock needed to be reminded that Lestrade and Mycroft once had a ....dalliance.

“Neither are you, so bugger off.”

“Leave him alone, Mycroft.”

“Says the dead policeman.”

“Inspector.”

“Mr. Holmes?” The nurse looks at him and he knows he’s spoken out loud again, to people that aren’t there. Or are they? Lestrade--or a shape that’s very like him--gives him a cheeky wink from behind the nurse.

“What is it?” He knows she’s watching him carefully. There will be notes in his chart and an adjustment in his pills. He wishes John were here. Lestrade is funny, in an obvious sort of way, but John makes him better. Always has. With John he would remember.

“Would you like to go and sit in the atrium, Mr. Holmes?”

Would he? It’s better than staring at this wall. It’s a very boring wall: just paint, no paper, and there isn’t a single thing to mar it. It looks smooth and expensive.

If John hadn’t taken away his gun in ‘52, after Sherlock had forgotten to unload it--once!--, he’d make that wall more interesting. Where is John? At work? In the atrium? Maybe that’s where he’s gone. He makes eyes at Ms. Kim sometimes, when Sherlock’s not there. When Sherlock _is_ there, too. John has always been a terrible flirt.

“I suppose,” he says, and lets her help him from his chair.

\--------

“John’s not here.”

“No, Mr. Holmes, he’s in the hospital.”

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft, who he doesn’t need to see, is in the corner by the birds of paradise, but John is nowhere in sight.

“Greg not follow you down, then?” Sherlock snipes. Mycroft looks to the heavens and sighs.

“You remember his name? Now?”

“I always knew his name.”

“You didn’t!” Lestrade pops up beside Mycroft. Sherlock tries not to think about that.

“I did!” he says lamely. Ms. Kim is looking at him sideways. She says something to Ms. O’Leary, who is crocheting a violently orange blanket. He twists his own blanket between his fingers.

“To John Watson,” he says, remembering. “John, I’m in the atrium and you’re not.”

There’s no answer. Sherlock shakes the comm.

“He’s sleeping.” Lestrade says. Is he standing closer now? Sherlock can’t quite tell.

“Oh, go and eat a doughnut. This isn’t your division.” Sherlock growls. “To John Watson.”

He can hear a whistling, gurgling sound, and the steady beep of hospital equipment. The comm. camera shows only the ceiling.

\--------

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” the nurse says. “Let’s get you spruced up.”

Sherlock looks up with annoyance. He’s researching Hallowe’en costumes, since John’s too busy, and he’s decided he’ll be a pirate. John will probably have to wear his kilt, again, but there’s nothing wrong with that.  He’s got no time for a bath, and says so.

“I think you should, Mr. Holmes.” She’s so tactful it makes Sherlock want to spit out a ream of embarrassing deductions--that sneaky chocolate eating, for a start--but then she says “I’m going to take you down to see Mr. Watson today.”

He cooperates.

“You still look good with your kit off.” She’s very insubstantial.

“I thought you were still alive.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Kicked it three weeks ago. Stroke.”

“So now you’re not here as well.”

“I’m right here, Mr. Holmes. Lift up there, please.”

“Oh, I’m here all right. I want to enjoy this.”

He glares in the direction of that laughing Irish voice.

“Did I hurt you?” The nurse’s brows are furrowed as she looks at him.

“No.” His voice is curt, and John would be disappointed. “I’m fine,” he says, more gently.

“You are. Oh, hello Myc.”

“Janine.” Mycroft’s voice is not as disapproving as it might be. “Spying still, are we?”

“Jim couldn’t make it.”

“No,” Mycroft said, dryly. “For once I wish he were here.”

“It’ll be soonish, I imagine. His heart’s not what it was.”

“It’s what failed me, in the end.”  
“If you weren’t such…” Sherlock is about to say something about Mycroft’s lifelong love affair with desserts, but he can’t, quite. There’s the nurse, first, and Mycroft is the only thing about this whole thing that has been solid. Substantial. Janine grins at him, and he can see her teeth shine, but nothing else.

The ride to the intensive care ward is not long, and for the first time Sherlock wonders just how sick John is. Could he not have been cared for in their room?  
“He’s very sick, little brother.’

“I know.” He didn’t, but now he does. The corridor stretches out before him like eternity, occasionally punctuated by the odd tasteful pumpkin.

Halloween is soon, now. Eternity doesn’t exist. He knows that. He also knows that John does exist, and that he’s close. He doesn’t know what costume John wants to wear.

“He is a bit of all right, it’s true. Nice cock.”

“Must you be so vulgar?” Mycroft isn’t looking at the shade of Janine, but he’s definitely talking to her.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says. He’s leaning forward in his chair because they’re almost through the door.

John’s sitting up, a little, and he’s still too small in the bed for Sherlock’s liking, but he’s there. His eyes crinkle with pleasure.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s heart drops out of his chest. John’s voice is so weak he has to strain to hear him. He rolls up as close as he can get and reaches for John’s thin hand. It’s cool and papery and he wants to press it to his heart. He kisses it instead; the nurse is watching. He would like to kiss John’s lips.

“Can you leave us?”

“Of course, Mr. Watson. I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.”

“You too, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. John looks puzzled. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Mycroft, eh?” John asks him, when they’re alone (well, Sherlock thinks they’re alone. Janine is probably eavesdropping).

“He was just there, suddenly, when they put the Halloween decorations up.”

“He never could count on me to spy,” John says, coughing. Are his lips blue? Sherlock wonders. He lifts himself up, closer, to check. John leans over and kisses him, a quick, dry brush, barely a kiss at all. His lips _are_ blue. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask, and John interrupts, slowly and deliberately.

“So what d’you want to be, love, for Halloween. Not a pirate again?”

“Why not?” Sherlock adores his pirate costume. The boots make him feel like he’s on the deck of a ship, and the shirt is very dashing. Redbeard stole his sword, but that’s fine. He has more fun with it than Sherlock does.

“What about me?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft is not there, but his voice brings Sherlock back to the present. John’s eyes are watery, and his breath is short. A machine beeps.

“Your kilt. Obvious.”

John shakes his head, but the corners of his mouth turn up.

“Incorrigible git,” he says, as the doctor’s step gets louder. He’ll have to go.

“Love you.”  
“Love you.”

\--------

Sherlock dreams a salacious dream--John, wearing the kilt, the one he wore to Molly’s Hallowe’en party so long ago, and then again, many times, just for Sherlock--and wakes up with a hard cock for the first time since…’58? It can’t have been that long. He remembers John’s hand on him so clearly.

Where is John? Has he gone to Sarah’s?

No. He knows this.

John is sick. Pneumonia. He breathes deeply, for John.

“So romantic,” Angelo says. Sherlock can see him, if he looks just to the left of where he thinks he is.

“You were right, Angelo.” Sherlock says. “About John. It’s not a good time, though.”

“Sorry. I’ll come back.” He vanishes without promising a candle. Sherlock remembers the candle, and John’s oatmeal sweater, and his own foolish, foolish refusal of John’s questions.

“Sentiment.” Mycroft says, “It’s written over your face.”

“Why is it always you, Mycroft? Why is it never Daddy, or even Mummy I see?”

“They’re gone.”

“And so are you, thankfully. Or we’d never get a pudding around here.”

“It’s not quite the same.”

“Then what is it, Mycroft? I can’t keep talking to people that aren’t there, or they’ll drug me more than they have. I just want to go to the Halloween party with John. They have Smarties. John gives me his share. And I can never predict what Ms. O’Leary’s costume is going to be. She was a Viking last year and I was sure she was going to be the Pope.”

“Think.”

“I don’t want to.”

Mycroft’s face takes on a cast that gives Sherlock pause. He doesn’t push.

“You’ve made your peace with them. But not with me.” A kindness he would have had trouble giving, when he was alive.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

“But the others?”

“Misfiring synapses. Me too, really, but I’m the one who’s most ingrained on your brain, apparently.”

“John is.”  
“John’s alive.” The ‘for now’ hangs in the air but Sherlock shakes his head to clear it. John is tough.

“Go away, Mycroft. I’m tired.” He is. He wants to sleep again. Where is John? He isn’t at work. Is he at home with Mary?

No. Mary has gone. He doesn’t know if she is dead or not. A brief spark of curiosity lights up, then burns out. He knows she won’t be there. He made his peace with her long ago. After all, he has John, and has done for fifty years--that is all the happiness anyone could ask for. He smiles. Mycroft smiles back, so gently, and makes as if to brush Sherlock’s shoulder but no touch comes. Sherlock does not want to think about that, either.

“Sleep, Sherlock,” Mycroft says softly, and Sherlock does.

\--------

He wakes again and it’s dark.  Is he alone? John’s not here. He’s sick. He’s not here. The clock shows that it’s 1:14 a.m., October 31st. Halloween.

Where’s his costume? He doesn’t want to get up; he’s warm and comfortable. But he doesn’t want to miss the party. It’s not till later. He switches on his light and pushes himself up to a sitting position. Picking up a book, he reads until the sky shines grey.

John wouldn’t forgive him for that, he thinks. Where is John? Where’s his phone? And his tea--where is that? He presses the call bell, and the nurse arrives, gentle and tactful, to bring him tea and tell him things he has known for a long time.

Mycroft doesn’t say a word. Sherlock is thankful, and more thankful still that Anderson is still alive. He never thought he’d be that.

“To John Watson,” he says. “John, it’s Halloween.”

The answer is slow in coming but it comes.  
“Yes. Show me your hat.” John whispers. He’s not sitting up.

Sherlock totters to the chair and puts it on. He holds the comm. as far from his head as he can, so John gets the full effect. The screen shows John’s mouth for a brief moment, turned up, then it shows the ceiling again.

“Vain.” Sherlock almost doesn’t hear it at all.

“With reason.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

Sherlock takes his pirate hat into his hands and waits for two o’clock.

\--------

The party is in the atrium. It is, as these things are, childish and flat: a small table, with tea, orange punch, cakes, and fruit. There are sandwiches too, but those will mostly go uneaten. Sherlock ignores the food; he waits until the nurse leaves him, then wheels himself--carefully, so his hat stays on--to the best vantage point. He has a running bet with John about Ms O’Leary’s costume, and he wants to see her before John does.

“She’s a cracker, that one.” Lestrade again. He’s dressed as Little Bo Peep, for some reason. Sherlock whips his head around to see if he’s talking about Ms O’Leary, but no, he’s pointing Janine, who’s wearing a James Bond tuxedo and…

“Is she spiking the punch?” Sherlock wonders if his own misfiring synapses can set other people drunk.

“Just medicinal, dear.” Mrs. Hudson says. She’s wearing harem pants and at least two veils.

“Ran into her in a club once,” Lestrade is reminiscing. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She showed me what was what.”

“Detective!” Mrs. Hudson says, shocked. Angelo--was Angelo there before? Sherlock can’t remember--is listening intently.

“What about your beautiful wife?” he asks.

“Oh,” Lestrade grins, “She showed Janine what was what. Lord, I miss that woman.” Janine winks at them from across the room.

“Rather naughty, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson does not sound like she thinks so.

“No naughtier than the time you and I…” Lestrade trails off

“That was 85 years ago, and also, Sherlock didn’t know that!” she says, slapping his arm.

“You are also a cracker, Mrs. Hudson,” Angelo laughs, his bandit scarf slipping.

“Is there anyone you haven’t shagged, Lestrade?”

“Of course. You, for starters.” Lestrade leers and looks ridiculous doing it, in his bonnet.

“Me,” Angelo says. “Sadly.”

“Would you all shut up! I have a bet to win!”

“Mr Holmes?” There’s a nurse at his elbow. Again. He must have a word with Mycroft. It’s all very well to be an addict, but even addicts deserve privacy.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Tea please?”

He said “Please.” John would be proud.

Where is John?

“He’s not here, Sherlock.” Another voice. Familiar. “I sent him to you, though. Where has he gone?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t always, anymore.” Mike Stamford. It’s Mike. Sherlock suddenly wants very much to see his round, benevolent face.

“I’m nowhere in particular, Sherlock. Just nearby.”

“Thank you, Mike.”

“It was sheer luck.”

“You said you sent him to me just now.”

“That was just now.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s mind swims a bit, and his limbs feel heavy. He glances up and to the left, where Mycroft usually is. Nothing.

Ms. O’Leary comes in dressed as Copernicus. It was Sherlock’s bet this year. He got it right. He’s right. The tea drops out of his hands.

“Mr. Holmes!” The nurse is right beside him, whisking away the blanket and sponging up the excess, tactfully. “Are you burned?”

He’s not.  
“I’m tired.” he says.

“Of course.” She loosens the brakes of his wheelchair to roll him back to his room.

“Take care, Sherlock,” Mike says.

Sherlock sees his face now.

“Ta, Mike.”

\--------

When he rounds the corner into his room, John is sitting in his usual chair, clear as day. Sherlock can see every crease in his skin and each individual stitch on his jumper.

“You’re here,” he says.

“We made it, Mr. Holmes,” the nurse says. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“I’m here.” John replies.

“I’d like to sit in my chair,” Sherlock says.

“Certainly. I’ll just tilt it back a bit. We’ll have to get you out of those wet trousers, though.”

“By all means.” He’s looking at John hungrily.

“Letting women undress you now?” John’s voice is caressing.

“Never.”

“Please do let me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “Of course.” He holds himself still and quiet, not taking his eyes off John for a moment.  He is bursting to speak but does not want to say a single thing that the nurse can hear.

She finally leaves.

“Your hat is ridiculous.”

“Your jumper is ridiculous.”

“Why do you always have to be a pirate?”

“Where’s your kilt?”

“Cock.”

“Arsehole.”

They grin at each other.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better now. Thank goodness.”

“I was…” Sherlock paused, “I was so worried. I couldn’t think when you weren’t here. And you looked so sick.”

“I was. And I was worried about you, too.”

“And now you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you sure it’s not just that you’re glad to see me? Is your bias and your admittedly advanced age obscuring your medical judgement?”

“Listen to yourself. Or rather, listen to me, because I’m your doctor.”

“And only a fool doesn’t listen to his doctor.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I am.” Sherlock would rather be called a fool by John Watson than be called anything by anyone else.

Something niggles at the back of his mind though, and this time he can fish it up and say it. John does make him better.

“Are you really here, John? I worry that you aren’t. The others weren’t here, not really.”

“I’m here.” John is smiling with his whole face. No worry lines.

“Am I here?”

“You’re with me.” John says, and Sherlock lets out his breath. He feels light and warm.

John stands and crosses over to his chair. He is so handsome.  He takes Sherlock’s hand--a firm grip, nothing thin or papery about it now--and bends to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

 

The touch is like life.

\--------

“It’s done?” Molly’s already in bed when she hears him--same old heavy tread, even now.

“It’s done, Mols.”

“Was he all right?”

“It was hard for him, but he’s all right now.”

SIlence.

“I wish I could hold your hand.”

“You will, soon.”  
“I know.” she says, and lies back on her pillows. She knows that if she had her sight she would see every hair on his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
